Last Chance Gulch
by Zuleika Cicero
Summary: Harry struggles with childhood and, with the help of Snape, learns about fatherhood. *complete* Slight OotP spoiler.


RATING: PG

CHARACTERS: HP, SS, OFC

PAIRING(S): Mention of HP/CC

SUMMARY: Harry struggles with childhood and, with the help of Snape, learns about fatherhood.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

NOTES: I wrote this in the wee small hours after an IM conversation with a friend about what sort of a parent HP would most likely make.

With special thanks to: BigRedTrollopeBox, Demiguise and Dracoschica, for their beta-ing.

. . . . . . . 

'Childhood is Last Chance Gulch for happiness. After that, you know too much.'

Tom Stoppard _Where Are They Now_

I can't remember exactly when I was last happy; it was certainly no time since Cho's death . . . our daughter's birth. She's three now, going-on-four -- our daughter, Emily Cho -- and sometimes, it feels as though every smile I've ever given her has been false, forced and fraudulent.

I am told that Cho would have lived had she had the proper medical care during and after the birth. Even Muggle medical care would have prevented her death. But she had no care; she was alone and had only herself to rely on.

She was almost to term when they took her -- Voldemort's _last chance gulch_ for the 'great' Harry Potter. Cho was to have been the bait in his trap, only something went wrong and she escaped.

Hiding in a remote wood, she gave birth. After, with the last of her strength, she made a small shelter for our baby, warded it and then quietly bled to death waiting for rescue.

Voldemort's Dark forces were unable to find them, though they were never more than feet away.

Like me, my daughter lives because her mother loved her powerfully enough to be able to hide her from darkness in light, using magic strengthened and amplified by love, not hate.

We have much in common, my daughter and I.

Yet we have no special bond, I cannot relate to her, I cannot connect with her; I don't know how. I don't know how to be a father, how to care for her, how to love her. I fear that my love would never be enough to protect her, even from imagined monsters under the bed; my love could not do as my mother's love did for me and Cho's did for Emily.

I do not know how to be her father because I never learned how to be a child, how to play, how to see the world in innocence. I do not understand childhood, I do not understand children, and I do not understand my daughter -- I do not understand myself. I was just a freak in a cupboard and then, later, a famous schoolboy.

I was happy then of course, with my first, my only real friends. But my happiness was fragile, always threatened. It was never the still, peaceful sort of happiness that comes from contentment. It was never quite secure . . . I was never granted that illusion; the one all good parents cast for their children until they have the maturity to face down 'reality' for themselves.

How am I to see what she sees in childhood? Ron knows, even Hermione, studious as she is, knows the trick of how to meet a young child on their own terms. No one ever met me on mine, I never experienced it, I do not know how to perform the trick, how to slot our worlds together. It sounds silly, but I don't know how to play . . . how to, _let's pretend_. I never had to pretend, my adventures were always frighteningly real.

When I read to her, sing to her, paint with her, I am going through the motions. These are activities my body engages in whilst I look on, detached, unaffected, numb.

I haven't the knowledge or the right sort of patience to raise a child, alone. I am either distant and indifferent or else cruel and bad tempered. I take out my dissatisfaction on her.

She walks too slow, takes up too much time, babbles too much --asks too many questions. Her hands are too clumsy, her understanding too little, her needs too unfathomable -- my heart too un-breechable. There is a gulf between us; between her understanding and mine . . . I don't know how to bridge it.

Today was Saturday but I had a report to write. It wasn't urgent, or complicated; in truth, it could have -- should have -- waited. But I wanted space, I wanted peace, I wanted rest from constant pestering. I wanted the excuse not to have to play, not to have to interact with her, to not face her -- to face myself. The excuse to hide.

She would not leave me in peace, would not play by herself, would not be 'seen and not heard.' There was question after question, request after request, disturbance after disturbance. She filled my head with white noise, which built, and built, so that I could not think, could not process thought, articulate, or act. The white noise, turned to white hot anger, frustration . . . I exploded.

My fists clenched and my nails dug into my palms, I spat at her to, 'FUCK OFF, go to your room, leave me in peace.'

She's only three, going-on-four, my daughter is. And I swore at her -- I told her, 'There's always the cupboard under the stairs.' I stood furious and blind and she, afraid and hurt . Hot, fat tears slid down her face, hitched, shuddering sobs wracked her small frame. I was overwhelmed -- lost. I did not know how to deal with her, how to face her childhood -- mine . . .

'Stop this nonsense now, girl!' I roared. 'Stop it, please,' I whispered -- begged. But her crying did not abate and I did not know how to comfort her, I did not know the trick -- no one ever comforted me.

'I mean it,' I growled, 'into the cupboard you will go, girl.' She sobs and does not understand, does not understand why this monster is breaking her heart and shredding her childhood. She sobs and sobs so relentlessly. I don't know how to deal with the child, her childhood is alien to me -- it is a freak I cannot comprehend, and I long to put it away from me, hide it, banish it . . .

I have the feeling of disassociating from my body and of looking on, detached, unfeeling, as my hands grab her roughly and, uncaring, I drag and haul and shove her into the cupboard under the stairs. Some part of me knows there will be bruises, but its not relevant because this is how small incomprehensible children are dealt with -- I learnt so in childhood.

My path as father was shown to me, taught me as a child, I learnt it by example -- my path is predetermined, the pattern is set . . .

We have much in common, my daughter and I.

I return to my work and continue to ignore my un-faced issues -- my daughter, her childhood, and mine. I ignore her pleas, her hyperventilated sobbing, her cries of, 'I want to come out, it's dark, I want to come out!' I do not think about that dark, that dark that I was once kept in.

She beats on the door with her tiny hands and kicks at it too. I pick up my quill to finish my report. One thing at a time; I can't deal with Emily now; I have my report to write.

The banging gets louder and I return to the cupboard to cast a silencing charm. But it isn't Emily banging; there's a man at the door. I only see him through clouded glass, but I know who it is. I would recognise the gaunt, angular features of the man from any angle, however obscured.

It is Snape, heartless Snape -- hates children, puts up with them only because he gets to bully them and force-feed them their own vile concoctions.

It is Snape, who my daughter adores and who adores my daughter in return.

He blamed himself for not preventing their kidnap. He was the one to find them, Cho and Emily, in the forest and when he brought them home he held onto Emily with such care and for the first time in my remembrance he looked so . . . sorry, so . . . human, and so I asked . . .

I don't know why I asked it of him exactly. Perhaps I wanted him to understand that I did not blame him . . . we have hated each other, resented each other in the past and I have blamed him for so much . . . it took us such a long time to even begin to come to terms with each other and I did not want to go backward again, did not want to lose someone else. Not even Snape. And so I asked, 'will you . . . would you . . . honour me and my daughter by consenting to be her godfather?'

I did not expect him to say yes, I did not expect him to take his duty seriously when he accepted, I did not expect him to visit and to care but he did, has, and does.

He is certainly no jolly and benevolent uncle, but he teaches her, he understands her, he is consistent . . . he is here now, at my door . . .

But he is not real, I am not real, this isn't really happening . . . it can't be.

He stops knocking, 'Alohomora!' I hear him say, the door swings open and in he steps, holding his wand. He looks from me to the cupboard and back again -- his face unreadable.

Suddenly I come crashing back into my body, back into reality -- no longer disassociated. I am horrified -- I am found out, caught, guilty . . . ashamed . . . defiant, unrepentant . . . in denial . . .

'What are you doing here?' I demand. I am covering my surprise, my guilt.

He, is still . . . assessing the situation before he acts, assessing me, Slytherin caution guiding him. He is still . . . but ready to act just as soon as he sees how best.

We stand and stare at each other. It's a game we've played before, he the uncompromising teacher, I the defiant schoolboy . . . except . . . I was never guilty then . . .

I look away first.

My daughter is quiet now, just the occasional hitched sob -- the sudden silence is somehow more oppressive, more threatening than the noise that went before.

Snape relaxes a little and slips his wand away, 'I had business in the town, I thought that I would come and visit my goddaughter before returning to Hogwarts,' he tells me.

'Oh . . .' I say. I'm at a loss, his manner is not hostile, there is no accusation in his tone and his usual sneer is absent. I have never seen him look less threatening, or more . . . approachable.

But what can I tell him? What can I say about what he has interrupted . . . it is inexcusable. He can see the cruel, vindictive parent that I am. He can see the ill way I treat my daughter. I am the useless boy he always said I was, that my uncle always said I was.

I look at the floor, I cannot meet his gaze. I am ashamed, embarrassed . . . relieved . . . Whatever happens next, I know that I'm no longer responsible for providing anyone with a childhood.

'What's happening here?' he eventually asks. Still no accusation, no disgust, no sneer.

'I needed to work, to finish a report . . . she wouldn't behave . . . she . . . she was very bad . . .' I trail off and look at him at last. I expect the sneer, coldness, disdain, but he is still unreadable. What I said is not the truth, of course he sees that, he knows, he has spent close to forty-years rooting out better liars than I. And even if it was the truth, it's no excuse, no reason to lock a little girl in a cupboard under the stairs.

But when he speaks again, all he says is, 'I see.'

He crosses the hall, unlocks the cupboard and lifts my daughter out.

Rescuing her, saving her from her own kin, just as I have been saved in the past.

We have much in common, my daughter and I.

He holds her and she clings to him for comfort. I want to laugh, it's suddenly so funny -- even Snape, cold, greasy, snide, heartless, cruel Snape, was once a child and knows how to face childhood, how to comfort a child -- even Snape. And then I remember that his childhood was no more pleasant than mine . . . I have seen glimpses of it. In my fifth year of school, I saw the neglected child-Snape, his abusive parents, his bullies -- my father. And yet he knows how to care for Emily in spite of this.

Then I realize, he faced his childhood when he faced mine -- he did overcome the wounds, which Albus once feared ran too deep. I'm not sure I can face Emily again . . . Brave Slytherin, slimy Gryffindor . . .

He isn't heartless, I am.

'Come on,' he says to her, voice soothing, 'we'll make lunch whilst your father finishes his report.' He turns towards the kitchen with my daughter, his goddaughter still in his arms, 'lunch in one hour,' he says.

I am stunned, why isn't he angry? He has always taken the time to carefully inform me of my failings in the past, to ridicule me, push me to do better, be better. Doesn't he see what I did? Doesn't he see he is wasting an opportunity to, _put Potter in his place_ at last?

Surely, he isn't going to let this pass. I am suddenly alarmed, panicked. He can't leave her in my care, I can't be a father to her, I don't know how! I don't want to anymore . . .

'But what about . . .' I start to ask, but he interrupts, firm, though still not angry.

'Go finish your report, we'll discuss . . . your behaviour later,' he states firmly.

And I realise he is saving me again too. I am guilty, but not irredeemable, and if anyone knows about redemption, then that person is Severus Snape. I have failed to live up to my potential, and he isn't going to let me get away with it, he will push me until I rise to the challenge and do what is expected of me. I will redeem myself and learn to love my daughter as I should.

So, I go back to my desk and finish my report.

Once done, I go to find Snape and Emily in the kitchen. They have prepared a pasta salad and I eat lunch quietly whilst Emily tells me about how they made it.

I tell her how delicious the food is and how clever she is, and that I'm sorry I locked her in the cupboard. And I am. And suddenly I am crying, I don't want to hurt her -- hurt me. She **is** precious to me, I just haven't been taught, haven't learnt to appreciate all that she is -- all that I am. I don't know how, I was never appreciated as a young child -- surely I am passing on that lack of appreciation to her, except . . .

Emily stretches out her hand, touches my tears, 'Don't cry Daddy,' she says, 'it's okay.' She smiles and hugs me round my neck, and I hug her back, clinging on . . . I haven't understood until now just how much she means to me -- I to her.

After lunch, we all go into the living room and Emily draws quietly whilst Snape and I talk.

I talk about my childhood and am surprised when he doesn't sneer, 'poor Potter and his little troubles', I forget that we outgrew that . . . He mentions, briefly, with disdain, his childhood . . . We talk about Emily and I remember the smell of her when she was newly born and all the times I've looked at her whilst she sleeps, tucked up safe . . . I remember how I thought my heart would break at the sight of her, so beautiful in her innocence, this little being that I helped create. I remember the look of shock and hurt betrayal on her face as I pushed her into the cupboard, and for a moment, I think that my heart is breaking, has broken. There is a painful lump in my throat and I can't speak.

Thoughtfully, Snape says, 'you and Emily have a great deal in common.'

Just then, she comes over to us, holds up a fancy drinking straw that I gave her earlier. It looks a little like one of her pencils and she asks, 'Is this for drawing with?'

I am about to tell her no, don't be silly you know what it's for but before I can Snape says, 'yes, it is.'

She screws up her face and looks at him, then me, puzzled.

It was clearly not the answer she was expecting -- lately she's developed a love of asking questions that she already knows the answer to -- it drives me crazy.

'No it isn't!' she says in her best, _you're a silly man_ voice.

'O, yes it is!' Snape says again.

'It's not! Look, it's a straw,' she holds it up to him and shows him the end. 'Straws are for drinking with,' she tells him knowledgeably.

'You draw with them,' Snape insists, a half smile playing on his lips.

She screws up her face again, trying to work it out. She looks at me for help, but I am as puzzled as she. She looks again at the straw, then at her godfather with suspicion.

'You draw the liquid up through it when you suck,' Snape tells her.

She still has the puzzled frown on her face and Snape leads us into the kitchen for a science lesson -- we sip iced juice and blow bubbles and he explains about 'drawing'. She listens, I listen, and together we take it all in. I have never seen this side of Snape before, never seen a man as apparently cold, uncompromising and as far from childlike as Snape interact with a child like this before . . . it is a revelation of sorts, and suddenly I see . . . I think I see how . . .

We speed drink, we blow bubbles until our drinks foam and it erupts over the glasses like lava down a volcano.

The three of us sit together and do childish frivolous things. We blow small paper balls across the table, racing them. Snape does these things with Emily and I, he joins in and plays and it seems quite natural for him to do so -- yet he is still, unmistakably, _Snape_.

I find it odd that this situation seems so natural, as if I see him like this every day, as if I could have imagined him being this way if I had not seen it first. Then I find it odd that I feel . . . I feel like _I_ do this every day, as if I _could_ do this every day. Suddenly, somehow this way of being _is_ a part of me and I wonder how the trick was done, what magic Snape has used. I see . . . I see that play is not only for children . . . I see that this is, after all, a part of me, Harry, the way it appears -- amazingly -- to be a part of Snape.

My daughter is laughing and suddenly so am I . . . I spent so long worried that I couldn't do it, didn't know the trick and trying to see the strings, spot the false door, that it never occurred to me that there was no trick to it at all.

'Is a straw for drawing with?' he asks.

'Yes!' Emily says happily, 'look . . .' She shows us how to draw with a straw.

I find myself asking, 'shall I show you how to paint with a straw?'

She looks at me in amazement, 'paint with a straw?' she asks.

I hear a low dry, chuckle from Snape and I find I'm almost overwhelmed by a sense of wanting to share more happy childhood moments with them both.

So out come the paints and the paper, and we blow streaks in primary colours, mixing them and making patterns. We say what pictures we think the abstract patterns make, as though they are inkblot tests.

'Mine's a unicorn in the mist,' says Emily.

'Are you sure?' asks Snape, frowning and putting on a mock critical tone. 'It looks like . . . like your father, racing on a broom, robes whipping in the wind, to me.'

'Hmmm, might be' says Emily, thoughtfully. Then, with conviction, 'yes, it is.'

'Well, I think it looks like a fire breathing Potions master,' I say.

'Silly daddy!' She giggles and gets into my lap to hug and kiss me. She feels light and small and free of care and seems to fit _just-so_ in my arms and I get a glimpse of something I've been chasing since she was born -- wholeness, unity, peace. And my heart is suddenly so full of joy that I fear it will burst out of my chest.

'I love you daddy!' she says.

'I love you too Emily.' I kiss her temple then she clambers off, reaches up to her godfather, and tells him, I love you too.

I see Snape smile, for once with something other than malice. A rare event. It's awkward and it does nothing much to improve his countenance, but it is genuine, warm . . . and suddenly it hits me anew . . .

We have much in common, my daughter and I.

End


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